The Stars Above the Sea by Idrils Scribe

Desert of Far Harad, year 178 of the Third Age.

The Great Desert was a circle of blinding whiteness and glare. A leaden sun beat down from directly overhead, burning nothing but silence and salt. Elrohir stood in his saddle and looked out over salt flats without end. Crossing Harad’s central plains in the shimmering daytime heat was reckless. To anyone less experienced with the desert it would have been deadly.

Elrohir drove his camel faster than was wise to make good time to the remote waterhole he knew lay beyond the horizon. He had grown rash during his flight, with no more patience for circumspection.

His voice had gone hoarse from disuse. He had been alone for weeks and could ill afford noise while stealth was his only safety. The word he whispered was a name. It rolled off his tongue with difficulty, his lips unused to shaping the lilting Sindarin vowels.

“Elladan.”

His twin brother. Elrohir knew it was true the very instant the strange northerner who called himself Glorfindel spoke the words. This one certain kernel of fact was a comfort, a pole star around which revolved the complicated tangle of improbabilities that came after.  

Glorfindel had uncannily spotted that Elrohir was fundamentally different from the Haradrim, and gone on to give what was, on the face of it, a perfectly reasonable explanation -- if only it hadn’t involved various creatures of myth and legend. Elrohir would have taken insult at being thought so gullible, had he been any less desperate and terrified at the time. But when battle was upon them, Glorfindel had held Elrohir’s very life in his hands. And saved it. With what intention, exactly, was clear as mud.

Elrohir looked down at his hands, tanned and sword-calloused, dirt thick under his fingernails. There wasn’t a wrinkle on them, and by his own reckoning he had to be at least forty-five years old. Forty-five hard years, from being a nameless Northern child-slave to the Black Numenoreans of Umbar, to a perilous escape and joining the Haradrim rebellion against his former masters, a merciless war fought deep in the unforgiving desert. He knew his face would still look well-favoured enough on a man half that age.

His youthful look had never seemed particularly alarming until the tooth. It had fallen victim to the iron gauntlet of a particularly agile Black Númenórean during a caravan raid. Elrohir had been a fraction too slow, and when he came to, hacking and gurgling on his own blood, he had spat out one of his front teeth along with the congealed clots filling his mouth. There had been some good-natured taunts of the sort that occur between warriors who have fought beside one another for a long time, and Elrohir resigned himself to his new battered appearance. Until he woke one morning to sore gums and the tender beginnings of a brand new tooth filling the gap, even and milk-white as ever.

The general consensus among his comrades was that Eru Allfather had to be a bloody idiot to be wasting His miracles on such ridiculous matters as Elrohir’s mouth while they had a war going on. Some looks were far more disturbing, and then and there Elrohir knew he needed to avoid getting punched in the mouth again if he wanted to live. The Haradrim had seen too much black sorcery wielded against them to tolerate anything that even smelled of it in their own ranks.

They needn’t have concerned themselves. Elrohir was no dark sorcerer, but he might be an Elf.  

Even so, Elrohir could never have brought himself to risk his life in the Black Númenórean lands by the coast on the evidence of Glorfindel’s word alone. There were safer ways to the Far North. Abandoning Glorfindel to travel north alone had been his only possible choice. Elrohir had told himself that each time his ever-turning mind arrived at this point during the past weeks. He had made sure the man was well cared for. The fine camel Glorfindel had been given for his journey from the deep desert back to the coast had been paid for out of Elrohir’s own share of the spoils of war.

And even if Elrohir had sworn a solemn oath to Glorfindel that he would come north, Glorfindel had failed to specify by what route and in whose company.  

Elrohir chose his path away from where he knew people would dwell. He did not bother to hunt, using sparingly his waybread and dried dates, the last of his field-rations from the war. He felt himself grow lean. His loose, desert-coloured robes billowed around his thinning body like a shroud. With the long silence taking away his voice it was as if he had become so much part of the desolate landscape around him that he’d eventually dissolve into it.

Reaching the vast gravel-plains of East Bellakar was but a short reprieve. In such an open landscape Elrohir could travel only at night, taking great care to hide himself and his camel from hostile eyes in the light of day. The Southern legions of Umbar’s military had been exterminated by the Haradrim rebels, but brigands and other desperate folk were a scourge upon these lands. None had ever been bold enough to confront an entire company of Haradrim, but one camel-rider alone, even as heavily armed as Elrohir, would be an easy victim.

During the long days of uneasy rest while he waited for dusk Elrohir’s dreams became distressingly vivid. He fell in battle again and again, each repeat more terrifying than the previous. He feared having gone mad until he learned to hold off sleep for so long that he dreamed no more when he did lay down.

Even exhaustion could not banish the restless spirits of the dead. It seemed they were all around him, their chatter thick on the incessant desert wind. Whether the warbling sounds were indeed his fallen comrades who had not yet left the Circles of the World, or merely figments of his own imagination conjured by grief, he could not tell. He tried his best not to be drawn into their strangely disjointed conversations, keeping his eyes on the stars and the way forward, not daring to look aside for fear he might see more than just the whirling of windblown dust. For the first time Elrohir found himself wishing for a companion to ground his mind. He would have welcomed even Glorfindel’s strangeness as a shelter from his own raging thoughts.

When the watch-fires of Kadar, a fortified market town, appeared in the distance on what had to be the twenty-fifth night, Elrohir was astonished at having reached his journey’s end, in spite of having known exactly where the city would be.

Kadar was the gateway to Harondor, a country permanently torn between Umbar and Gondor like a scrap of meat among fighting dogs. Of late it fell under the hard hand of Gondor’s King Cemendur. At some point during his trek Elrohir had crossed the unmarked, ever-shifting borderline and left Umbar behind. He was glad to see sable banners bearing the silver tree flutter atop Kadar’s sturdy walls of red rammed earth.

He spent a few hours half-asleep hidden between a jumble of boulders. Ot lay beside him, fettered and grumbling plaintively. At sunrise Elrohir dressed in something finer than his travel-stained desert clothes. He hid his weapons in his pack to present himself at the city gates as they were opened for the day. The guards waved him through with barely a glance, one of a growing throng of desert dwellers pouring into the town to conduct their business. Despite the coolness of early morning the soldiers of Gondor looked uncomfortably warm in their dark livery and high helmets, a uniform so eminently unsuitable for the desert it boggled Elrohir’s mind. He was glad to see the strange warriors nonetheless. He did not look forward to the business that brought him to the city, but the sight of another human being was an unspeakable relief.

On Kadar’s narrow, shaded alleyways convened a bustling mix of veiled nomads, dark-skinned Haradrim and pale Númenóreans. The town was a crossroads of trade routes into the deep desert and beyond. Gondorian merchant adventurers were always in attendance. They would be Elrohir’s final destination. First he had a sad necessity to see to.

On the outskirts of town lay the sprawling cluster of noise that was the animal market. Red dust, frantic bleating and the smells of goats and stale urine assaulted his senses as he led Ot past the corrals. Among many goat sellers he found an amicable Haradi trader in horses and camels. The man was a canny haggler, but Elrohir gave as good as he got. Their transaction bled into a lengthy discussion, lubricated by several cups of sweet coffee. The full power of the midday sun pummelled the market square by the time Elrohir had finally bartered Ot for a hardy, dun-coloured mare and a leather purse--smaller than he would have liked--of silver coins bearing King Cemendur’s likeness. He kept goodbyes brief, feeding his faithful mount of many years a last dried date before leaving with a wistful look into the dark, unknowing eyes.

Upon setting foot in the city’s maze of shadowed alleyways he had to sit down behind a crumbling mud-brick garden wall. The very tears he found himself incapable of after the deaths of so many friends now came to him unbidden, over a cantankerous bastard of a camel. Frantically rubbing his eyes, Elrohir sank to the ground and cried his fill, muffling his sobs in the wide sleeve of his new Gondorian tunic while the strange mare patiently waited beside him.

The Men of Gondor were easier to manage. Inside the jewel-market Elrohir found a company of well-to-do merchants in spices and precious stones. They were planning their return journey through Harondor by the fords of the River Poros and from there to their home city of Pelargir. Those were lawless lands, and their leader was keen enough to add one more armed mercenary to the caravan. Elrohir did not relish the thought of more fighting, but plying his soldiers’ trade was the only way he could afford to pay his way north. On this particular journey their caravan was fortunate. The only fighting for Elrohir and his fellow sell-swords was chasing off a ragtag band of local would-be highwaymen who had clearly bitten off much more than they could chew.

Among the Gondorians was a tall, fine-boned gemstone trader called Elemir. The man struck up a pleasant conversation with Elrohir on their first day in the saddle, intrigued by the unusual combination of a deep desert accent and a face that spoke of the purest Northern blood. Elrohir was glad for Elemir’s company and the distraction it provided from his own preoccupations. He introduced himself by his Haradi name, and upon Elemir’s enquiry told him the simple truth about his journey to Pelargir, or at least the believable parts of it. Former slaves escaped from their Black Numenorean masters and roaming in search of their home and family were not unheard of in South Gondor, even if few of them were headed as far away as Arnor.

Elemir had an inquisitive mind and an entrepreneurial spirit, and Elrohir knew he was being cannily questioned. He divulged some of his knowledge of gemstone trade in Harad's deep South, in opals and diamonds from secret mines deep in the desert. In exchange Elemir taught him the dialect of Pelargir, chuckling as Elrohir struggled to draw out his Haradi staccato to the longer, more Sindarin-like vowels of Gondor.   

As a true Gondorian patriot Elemir harbored a deep-seated resentment of all things Umbarian, including their slave-trade. Despite his talent for business he was not a hard-hearted man, and Elrohir’s tale garnered his sympathy. He was the younger son of one of Gondor’s foremost noble families, and proved a highly useful acquaintance: his eldest brother was dockmaster of the King’s Harbour in Pelargir. When Elrohir spoke of his intention to crew on a ship for passage north, Elemir enthusiastically offered to find him a position.

“We’ll get you on your way home, lad!” Elemir drawled with the broadest of smiles, and despite his misgivings Elrohir summoned one to match it.   

“So you did find him, but he would not come?”

Elrond’s voice was barely recognizable, hoarse and difficult like a man being strangled, even as he filled the strained silence blanketing the council chamber.

The face of the Lord of Imladris had grown sharp and drawn from months of waiting in tortured uncertainty, but underneath the bulky fall of robes grown large on his wasted frame lay a core of ancient steel. Elrond stood straight as a lance, all of his impressive skill of Sight trained on his returned emissary. The light of a golden spring afternoon washing over him from the council room’s mullioned windows only worsened the sorrowful image he presented, a mockery of his anguish.  

Gathered around the great round table was the same company as on the day Glorfindel was sent out, now nearly a year ago. Surprisingly, Elrond and Celebrían had allowed even Elladan to be present for the first telling of his news. Before today the boy had set foot in the council chamber only on the rarest of occasions, usually to receive some foreign dignitary Elrond could not risk insulting. His parents had endeavoured to give him some semblance of a careless childhood, as far as was still possible bearing the deep sorrow that was Elrohir’s disappearance. Glorfindel questioned the wisdom of breaking with the habit now. One Peredhel twin wasting away from grief was quite enough.

Celebrían stared at him with such unconcealed longing. It broke Glorfindel’s heart how this meeting would serve only to dash the very hope that had lent the previous one such a thrilling character.

Glorfindel was ill at ease in the travel-stained clothes in which he had ridden hard all the way from Tharbad, where Círdan’s sailors delivered him back onto dry land after a frantic rush north. He desperately wished that the kind-natured Peredhel would allow himself at least this one outburst of rage. Anger would have been easier on Glorfindel, too, the sharpness of shouts or curses less agonising than this silent upwelling of grief.

Celebrían had almost collapsed into her chair, her legs unable to support her.

“Has he forgotten us?” she demanded with tears in her voice.

To endure failure and dishonor with grace was a lesson neither of Glorfindel’s long lifetimes had taught him well. For a month of sleepless nights and hard, agonising days at sea Glorfindel had dreaded Elrond and Celebrían’s reaction to the ill tidings he brought. In this very moment he had so fearfully anticipated, surprisingly the hardest thing of all was to look Elladan in the eye.

The playful boy who once trailed his father’s legendary captain with barely concealed adoration was no more. Elrond’s older son had grown to manhood in a single winter, and his face had lost all traces of that lovable roundness of youth. To any other onlooker the resulting fair, finely cut features would bring to mind Elrond, or even a young Turgon. When Glorfindel gathered the courage to raise his eyes to Elladan’s he was briefly confused by a spike of irrational hope that this could somehow be Elrohir, flown to Imladris on eagle-back by an unhoped-for grace of the Valar. In a heartbeat the bitter reality reasserted itself.

Elladan appeared to have inherited an ample measure of his father’s admirable stoicism in the face of adversity. He was pale as death, but his eyes met Glorfindel’s with a composure that would have befitted an Elf ten times his age.   

Glorfindel grappled for words that would serve to explain Elrohir’s absence and spare the three of them what pain he could.

“He is on his way here as we speak, and I have no doubt that he is making good time. But he chose to travel alone.”

Elrond’s voice cut him off. There was the slightest edge of hysteria to it. “By himself without guard or companions, all the way from Far Harad?!”

A tidal wave of sheer terror emanated from both Elrond and Celebrían at the thought of their son wandering alone and unprotected. Glorfindel’s chest ached at the sight of their agony. He desperately tried to convey a trust he did not feel himself.

“Elrohir will come to no harm. He is canny, and hardened. He left me no choice in the matter.”    

Elrond’s only answer was an incredulous stare. Glorfindel could not help but be transported back to the court of Gondolin, now ruined and drowned, where he had once returned with similar tidings. The shame had been as great then as it was now. Maybe this was even worse: Aredhel had been a woman grown, mighty among the Noldor and at least in part responsible for her own misfortunes. Whatever fate might befall Elrohir on his long journey north, the ultimate responsibility would rest entirely on Glorfindel’s shoulders.

Elladan’s voice broke the leaden silence, surprisingly calm and collected.

“How was he? Where did you find him, what was he doing? Please tell us, Glorfindel, and show us his face!”

Glorfindel found another measure of courage in the unexpected gentleness of Elrond’s other son. He spoke until the afternoon faded and warm lamplight lit the circle of faces around the table, pouring the alien tangle of light and darkness that was Harad into words and images. Pellardur and its slave-market. The Haradrim, the vast emptiness of their desert under the stars. Elrohir, his face, his voice, his firm and quiet way of being. Next Glorfindel spoke of the journey across desolation they had taken together in search of the Ringwraith. The confirmation of what the loremasters of Imladris had fearfully suspected since Isildur’s failure -- that Sauron himself and his servants survived the loss of the One Ring -- was a painful blow, but Elrond made a conscious effort to lay aside the resurrection of their enemy until tomorrow, in the light of a new day.

Finally Glorfindel’s tale reached the final battle of the Haradrim against Umbar, and its aftermath. As he told of Elrohir’s flight and the message he left behind, all daytime sounds of Imladris outside had ceased and Eärendil’s light was visible through the vaulted windows. Silence descended on the room.  

Elrond was the first to speak, voice cracked, as he clasped Glorfindel’s hand. “Thank you, my old friend, for all you did for my son.”  

He turned to Erestor with new vigour. “Will you prepare messages to be sent in the morning?”

Judging by his harried expression, Erestor was already composing the letters in his mind.

“Consider it done. Glorfindel is right, Elrond. Once he leaves the desert to enter Gondor he is easily tracked down, whether he goes by land or by sea. We shall alert Círdan’s folk and all wandering companies from here to Belfalas. Celeborn will no doubt wish to set a watch on the paths of the White Mountains.”

Glorfindel was quick to interrupt. “Have them be careful. If some over-keen marchwarden lays a hand on him things may turn very ugly.”  

Celebrían looked at him sharply. “He is not well, is he?”

Ever since their first meeting an age ago in Lindon, Glorfindel had known her to perceive even what was deliberately obfuscated. She took after Galadriel in that respect. He had meant to spare his lady the state her son had been in when he ran into the desert alone. She would have none of it.

“Elrohir is beside himself with grief. His adopted people were decimated in the battle against Umbar. The loss left him very much adrift. I told him in no uncertain terms that the Enemy may already know his identity, and he has to leave Harad or risk being captured. He did take my advice, at least.”

“Alone.” Celebrían was not satisfied.

It took all Glorfindel’s courage to look her in the eyes. “He did not trust me, in the end. The Lord of Umbar has a considerable price on his head. He would not take the risk that I might choose to collect it if he went to the coast with me.”       

Elladan was aghast at the depth of his brother’s mistrust. “Has he gone mad?”

The underlying assumption of Glorfindel’s absolute trustworthiness was a greater consolation than the Elf in question dared to admit to himself.

He shook his head. “He is quite sane, I believe. Harad has a way of instilling a man with distrust. Let him come to us if you can help it.”

He looked at Elladan wistfully. “You are all he remembers. Despite my best efforts he has little recall of your mother and father. It is the separation from you that pains him like a wound. Consider yourself our bait, Elladan. He will come to you, one way or another.”

The white towers of Pelargir, the great Port of Gondor, appeared to float above the city’s massive ramparts like an apparition from a fever-dream. Elrohir joined the throngs of travellers hanging over the railings to catch their first sight of the city from one of the fleet of ferry-boats carrying man and beast across the wide expanse of the Anduin.

The flat-bottomed ferry rocked precariously at the sudden imbalance, spooking some of the closely tethered horses. A swearing, agitated ferryman swiftly dispersed the crowd brandishing a stout wooden club. His lilting Gondorian accent reminded Elrohir so much of Glorfindel’s Sindarin it almost made the salty expletives sound cultured.

Elemir, whose fine garb and confident manner clearly identified him as a man of means, was allowed to stand wherever he pleased, and he laughed heartily at the fracas. The merchant’s elation at reaching his home safely, and profitably, was infectious. Elrohir gladly joined him.

The coming of summer in Gondor brought gentle sunshine, reflecting off the placid river like a mirror of the finest silver. The brisk westwind carried a fresh, salty smell, and the cries of sleek seagulls wheeling overhead awoke an unknown restlessness in Elrohir, a sweet ache of longing for distant horizons.

His bout of nostalgia was swiftly forgotten as he craned his neck at Pelargir’s fortifications. The King’s Harbour was sheltered by unscalable walls of white granite, hewn into smooth, creamy blocks taller than a grown man. By some arcane art the Men of Gondor had stacked them high, and so tightly one couldn’t fit as much as a fingernail between them. The only passage was through great city-gates of cast bronze. The doors were decorated so finely with gilded scenes of Elendil’s journey to Middle-earth that they seemed too beautiful to be exposed to the elements. From the gate they entered a torch-lit tunnel, its length clearly intended to inspire awe at the wall’s thickness. At its end visitors emerged, momentarily stunned, into the dazzling sunlight of a grand market square lined with flowering orange trees.

Among the multicoloured stalls and tents bustled all manner of folk. Stallholders and vendors loudly hawked their wares. Elrohir was captivated enough by the pulsing heartbeat of the city that he no longer cared whether he looked like a gawking provincial. He strolled past tubs of writhing, iridescent river fish caught in the harbour, heaped displays of fragrant spices traded from the four corners of the world, and the colourful bounty of the lush river vales of Lebennin: oranges, lemons and fist-sized tomatoes stacked as high as a man’s waist.

Dominating the city was the Citadel of the King. Wherever one turned in Pelargir, glimpses of its elegant towers could be seen through gaps in the rows of stone houses built wall to wall. Elemir pointed out the pennants to Elrohir. All were sable, but both the seven stars and the winged crown flew high, flapping briskly in the sea-wind. Proud of the royal favour his city enjoyed, Elemir was keen to explain the flags’ meaning: King Cemendur and Crown Prince Eärendil were both in residence, with the court on its yearly retreat from the stifling heat of Minas Anor.

From his days as a slave Elrohir was familiar with the city of Umbar, but he had lived in the desert for many years since, and the sheer scale of the King’s Harbour was overwhelming. He looked for the slave market or any sign of slaves in the city in vain. With astonishment he realised that Elemir’s unbelievable claim that there was no slavery in Gondor had been the truth. He fell in love with Pelargir and its people there and then.

The city’s lifeblood was the River Anduin. This close to its mouths it grew broad and deep, the eastern shore barely visible to Mortal eyes. At the sight of the rows upon rows of tall ships anchored in the docks, the gathering of Gondor’s mighty navy and its mercantile fleet, it dawned on Elrohir that without an introduction his endeavour might not have been as straightforward as he had first believed.

Luckily Elemir was as good as his word. Within days of their arrival in the city he invited Elrohir to his family’s townhouse in the stately Jewellers’ Quarter to show him maps of Eriador. Elrohir had had no concept of the sheer size of that realm. When asked where in Arnor, exactly, he meant to seek his family he realised that the mention of Rivendell would raise both eyebrows and difficult questions.

Instead he blurted out “Fornost!”

The new capital of the Northern Kingdom, and the only Northern city Elrohir knew by name. Elemir quickly disabused him of the notion that he could walk from Tharbad to Fornost in a few days with his saddle bag slung over his shoulder.

“Arnor is cold enough to freeze your bones, lad, and winter comes early. You may think nights are cold in the desert, but you’ve never seen the likes of the North! Trees lose their leaves and the river itself turns solid with ice. They’ll find your corpse in a snow-melt come spring if you try to walk that road alone. If the Orcs don’t get to you first, that is. When they do there will be nothing left to find!”

Suitably forewarned, Elrohir deferred to Elemir’s judgement in the matter. Thankfully his generous--if somewhat pedantic--friend delivered. Within a few days he spoke to his brother and gave Elrohir a letter of recommendation for the Beinalph, a caravel that sailed up and down the coast carrying Gondorian wine and spices destined for Arnor. The final journey of the season would take her all the way north, up the river Greyflood to Tharbad.

Her captain was a stout, bearded Northerling called Berengil. He had just lost several of his regular crew to summer-fever, and agreed to take Elrohir on as a deckhand and rower despite his complete lack of experience, his pay consisting of room, board and passage to Tharbad. From there the ship’s precious cargo would go up the King’s Road by horse caravan, all the way to Fornost.

Upon reaching Tharbad Elrohir stood before a vital decision. His most sensible destination was indeed Fornost. He could afford to spend the harsh Northern winter in the city’s safety if he lived frugally and found some employment. The people of Fornost were likely familiar with the Elves of Rivendell. If he still wanted to after hearing their tales, he could set out to search for the hidden valley come spring. The riskier alternative was following the Greyflood upstream to where it turned into the Loudwater. According to Glorfindel that river ran past his father’s house. If he failed to locate it, winter would find him lost in cold, wild lands. Even worse, if his welcome with the Elves wasn’t as warm as Glorfindel had claimed, he would be at the mercy of the strange creatures without hope of escape.

These grim considerations were the only stain on his sunny days in Pelargir. For what had to be the hundredth time he tried in vain to distill some clarity from the few jumbled memories he had from his early childhood. As he had long known no useful information was forthcoming. Rivendell and its inhabitants would remain a mystery until he could return to see them with his own eyes. For a few agonizing days he considered staying in Pelargir and trying to make his fortune in the prosperous harbour city where no one knew or cared about his past. Despite the attraction he felt to the city and its people, the thought of Elladan made it an unbearable prospect.

In the end Berengil’s words made up his mind. The captain assured Elrohir that he knew the Northern traders well and getting him a position as a hired sword protecting their caravan to Fornost would be no trouble at all. Elrohir gladly agreed to this, determined to make sure the man was happy with his work on board.

On his last night in Pelargir Elrohir walked the bustling quays of the great harbour. The day had been stifling, but the balmy summer evening drew city folk out of their houses in droves. Every door and window in the city had been thrown open, and before each house stood wooden benches where the inhabitants gathered to eat, drink, gamble and gossip with noisy abandon. Earlier that night he had checked out of the cheap boarding house where he’d shared a shabby room with other sailors. The Beinalph would sail out with the tide in the third hour, making it hardly worthwhile to pay for another night. Selling his dun mare proved an unexpected windfall. He had sewn the silver into his undershirt to rest safely against his skin, well hidden from the pickpockets roaming the seedier districts of the city.

Two small coppers bought a spiced fish pasty from one of the roadside food-carts doing a roaring trade. Elrohir sat down on a carved stone bench outside a sailor’s pub, the old saddle bag containing his possessions carefully tucked beneath his legs. He silently watched the colourful crowds pass. Pelargir held all kinds of folk: blond men and women from the Land of Horses in the East, small stocky woodmen and tall dark-haired Númenóreans.

The day had been memorable, and it left Elrohir in a soft mood. He had been to say his final thanks to Elemir inside the man’s shop in the cavernous jewel-market. Business was slow in the hot midday hours, and Elemir had gladly left the shop in the hands of his apprentice. He directed Elrohir to the cool, shaded courtyard in the back where he dug up a jug of yellow peasants’ wine from Lebennin. The afternoon became merry indeed, and when Elrohir let slip that he had never seen a Dwarf Elemir insisted on taking him to the jewellers’ guild-house, where all Dwarven delegations to the city were housed as honored guests of the guildmaster.

The fabled creatures had looked nearly as wide as they were tall, impossibly hairy and dressed in mail and leather despite the summer heat. Elemir had almost doubled over with laughter at Elrohir’s wide-eyed astonishment. They had parted in good cheer, with many good wishes and the grand gestures and embraces that seemed commonplace among the sanguine inhabitants of Pelargir.

The locals claimed that sometimes even Elven ships moored in the King’s Harbour. At first Elrohir had avoided the city’s better areas, keeping himself the less savoury quarters out of concern about being seen and recognised by Elvish sailors. He did not look forward to facing Elf-lord’s wrath before it had ample time to cool. ‘The grubbier, the safer’, he reckoned, because he could not imagine the likes of Glorfindel taking up ramshackle lodgings in a street lined with open sewers. During his weeks in the city he had neither seen nor heard talk of a single Elf, and his concern had dissipated.

As it turned out he gravely underestimated Elrond’s web of spies.

Elrohir quietly slipped through the milling late-night crowd on the dockside to join the crew of the Beinalph. Sunset had brought little relief from the windless, sweltering heat, and the still air in Pelargir’s sailors’ quarter seemed entirely made up of old sweat and sour wine. He briefly paused to sling his heavy saddlebag over his other shoulder before sweat would soak through his linen tunic, when from the corner of his eye he caught sight of a slender, dark-haired woman in a simple sailor’s outfit. She and her male companion had nothing of Glorfindel’s golden majesty, but one look was enough to tell they were not Mortal. The pair stood motionless on the threshold of a chandler’s shop, looking directly at Elrohir across the bustling quay.

Elrohir’s well-honed survival instinct took over. He crouched low and dove among a group of drunken seamen, pushing and pulling all he could reach to create an impenetrable throng of unsteady men. Once he achieved sufficient chaos, with shouted curses and the first erratic punches beginning to fly, he ran as fast as he could. If the Elves gave chase Elrohir did not notice.

He snuck to the Beinalph’s mooring by several detours, rushing onto the gangplank with his heart racing like a Wraith was on his heels. The outgoing tide would soon be upon them, and the ship’s deck swarmed with shouting, sweating seamen like a disturbed anthill in the flickering light of many storm lanterns. Thankfully both captain Berengil and his helmsman were far too preoccupied with ensuring the precious cargo -- man-high barrels of wine and salted lemons -- was tied down securely to notice anything amiss with their new deckhand. Elrohir brought his belongings below deck and made sure to find an occupation that kept him there.

Even at the backbreaking work of rowing the ship out of the harbour he could not find his peace again until Pelargir had receded to an orange glow on the dark horizon.

Chapter End Notes

Hearing back from readers makes me a very happy Scribe!

Chapter Text

Sailing agreed with him, Elrohir decided. The vastness and silence of the sea, the White Mountains of Gondor nearly lost in blue-tinged distance on the northern horizon, reminded him of the desert. It did much to calm his racing mind. Every moment spent high up in the masts and rigging, the ship and the world at large spread at his feet, was an exhilarating joy.

It almost compensated the meagre meals Berengil provided for his crew, consisting of tightly rationed seabiscuit and salt fish, and the flea-infested sleeping berths with their sour smell of rats. Things were even worse at rowing benches, situated above the bilges and exposed to the eye-watering stench of the bilge-water.

Everyone on board seemed used to this state of affairs. Elrohir did not complain either. He was well aware of his status as a charity case, and recalled staying in far worse accommodations as an unwilling guest of the Umbarians.

This particular voyage north was the smoothest one the Beinalph had ever made, according to captain Berengil. Not a single summer storm troubled their sailing all the way through the Bay of Belfalas. Superstitious like all sailors, Berengil never failed to make a spectacle of convening the crew on deck for a song of thanks to the Lady Uinen. Elrohir’s years in Harad had left him with little regard for the Valar. Nonetheless he dutifully sang along. Whether it was due to the daily displays of piety or not, their unusual luck held. As high summer broke the Beinalph met only gentle weather and favourable winds. They rounded the Cape of Andrast around midsummer, turning north towards Eriador.

Watching the landscape change as they went north was a tortuously slow farewell to Harad and all things familiar. Every day the colours of the hills gliding past lost more of their southern ochre and brown tints, to be replaced by an unfamiliar green. Olive groves and vineyards gave way to apple orchards, and each of the small Gondorian harbour towns the Beinalph called into seemed more northern in both architecture and the cool manners of its people. Elrohir was almost grateful that the heavy work of rigging the sails and rowing whenever the wind failed them left him little time to dwell on it all.

The companionship of his fellow sailors was no consolation. They were crude, small-minded men, all hailing from Tharbad like Berengil. Elrohir was an outsider among them and they made sure he knew it. Their thick northern accents made understanding them a challenge. During the first days of the voyage Elrohir uttered the words "please repeat" so often they were mockingly bestowed as his nickname. He had as little to do with the other sailors as he could, volunteering for night watch more often than not both to avoid their company and for the comforting familiarity of the nighttime hours.

When he did share his meals with the regular crew he tried to sound out what they knew about Elves, playing the part of the curious, ignorant southerner. What he heard was decidedly ambivalent. The older seamen had heard firsthand accounts of Elves from their fathers and grandfathers, commending the valour of the Elvenking on the battlefield of Mordor.

Other crew members were far less praiseful. The helmsman, a burly fellow from Minhiriath called Abrazîr, relished frightening Elrohir and whoever else cared to listen with terrifying tales of uncanny and dangerous beings he called "white-fiends".

Abrazîr truly outdid himself on Erulaitalë, the Northern midsummer feast. After Captain Berengil sacrificed a handful of grain to Eru by throwing it overboard with a great deal of pomp and circumstance, the crew was given some hours of downtime to celebrate what was apparently the greatest holiday of the year in the North. By way of a feast their captain offered nothing but the inevitable salted fish and hardtack, but every man received a full belly’s worth of it along with a cup of wine, which was festive enough.

Despite his unpleasant character Abrazîr was a singularly gifted storyteller, a highly praised talent on long sea voyages. Soon he was enthroned on a large coil of rope, a makeshift canopy of sailcloth protecting him and a gaggle of listening seamen from the hard afternoon sun shimmering off the placid waves of the Great Sea.

The crew had no eyes for the spectacle provided by the great white gannets perching on the Beinalph’s masts. The majestic, gold-dusted birds casually speared into the glassy green water without as much as a splash, to emerge with writhing silver fish in their beaks. Meanwhile the men were enthralled by Abrazîr’s blood-curdling tales of the Elves: their strange piercing eyes, the cold fire of their shining swords, the wickedness of their sorcery. They drove men to strange and violent deeds, Abrazîr stated with great certainty, enthralled women and spirited away children, to be returned with their minds irreversibly altered.

“The good folk of the North must take care out on the roads on those haunted nights when the stars are out and strange music flies on the wind!”

Determined not to be cowed so easily, Elrohir shrugged.

“I can’t imagine King Valandil allowing them to waylay travellers on the King’s Road.”

He immediately regretted that remark, because Arnuzîr shook his head with an air of sheer delight.

“My old man took me along to Fornost once, when I was a lad, and I saw them with my own eyes. Elves flock to all that’s fair and shining. The court of our good King Valandil has them swooping in like a flock of magpies! If you ever set foot inside the Royal Quarter you’ll see them in the broad daylight, as real as you and I!”

Elrohir could not suppress a deep shudder, and Abrazîr lapped it up.

The eerie tales brought Elrohir little peace with his decision to travel north. What he had seen of Glorfindel’s powers left no doubt there was likely a kernel of truth, even if the storyteller obviously had malignant intentions. It was distressing knowledge that even in Fornost, which he had imagined filled with ordinary folk, he would have to be careful.

That cloudless summer night Elrohir was on lookout duty, a task he was set to often since Berengil had discovered his excellent eyesight. He sat on a small wooden platform nailed to the main mast, bare feet dangling above a lethal drop to the deck far below. A length of rope tied around his waist held him securely to the mast as the ship gently rocked to and fro. They had almost lost sight of land, the coasts of Enedwaith a distant horizon. A perfect dome of stars reflected on an ocean as dark and smooth as glass.

Elrohir had little appreciation for its beauty as he huddled into his felted wool jerkin against the chill ocean wind. He looked up to the stars, missing the constellations of Harad. Northern stars, for which Elrohir had no names, had taken their place. At the loss of the bright night skies of the desert, his constant, intimately familiar guidance in the darkest days of the war, he was struck by the full weight of what had befallen him in the past months. The sheer desperation of Harad’s impossible war against Umbar and the Ringwraith, the shock that was Glorfindel and his revelations, the deaths of so many friends. At the time their slaughter had seemed like a loss so momentous it could never be rivalled by any other pain. It had proven merely the first one in an inescapable chain of losses of all he ever knew, until even the stars grew strange and only Elrohir himself was left, alone in all the vastness of an unknown world.

Suddenly his whole plan, this journey to the uttermost north by land and sea, braving a thousand perils across distances so great they boggled the mind, in search of a brother he had last seen almost a lifetime ago, seemed utter foolishness.

There was no way back to Harad, Elrohir thought bitterly. The Beinalph certainly wouldn’t turn around on his account, and stranding himself in one of the sad, poverty-stricken fishermen’s villages of the grey lands they were now passing would not improve his situation in any way.

What to do once they reached Tharbad seemed impossible to figure out, his mind tangling in grief and despair like a netted fish each time he thought about it. He rested his cheek against the polished wood of the mast, and watched without blinking how ship and horizon distorted as they swam with tears.

Where the Beinalph’s bow disturbed the ocean great clouds of phosphorescence swirled below the surface. The sight was so mesmerizing that Elrohir’s eyes began to play tricks on him. The longer he looked on, the more he could have sworn he saw an impossibly tall woman in the looping, ever-moving curls of dark and bright water. She smiled kindly at him, her hair feathering like blue-green seaweed.

----

On one of the sweetest days at the height of summer Elrond found himself aimlessly wandering his sun-drenched physic garden. The spacious courtyard within the House of Healing was lined with slender white columns beyond which lay shadowed galleries with inlaid floors and benches where convalescents could stroll and rest. The stone filigree of the rooflines framed a sky of unblemished cornflower blue. The Lord of Imladris overlooked the well-tended beds where his healers grew the many herbs of their trade. There was fragrant athelas; large expanses of deep green speckled with the merry white, red and purple of poppies; and the delicate pinkish cream of valerian flowers. Against the northern wall three straw beehives provided the peaceful scene with a soporific hum. All things within this beautiful space had been carefully designed to bring peace and healing to body and mind. To its lord all it held was bitter agony.

Neither beauty nor meditation or even the distractions of duty had been able to divert Elrond from the poisonous fears for his missing son gnawing at his heart. The knowledge that in this very moment Elrohir likely wandered a barren, war-torn land all alone was terrifying. The possibility he might be chased by one or more Ringwraiths turned it to torture.

Of late Elrond caught himself losing his temper, taking his pain out on those around him. Celebrían, Glorfindel and Erestor had the mettle to call him out on it, and he did try his all to contain his bile. His success varied, though, which was undoubtedly the reason behind the apprehensive look the dark-haired Silvan healer kneeling in the poppy bed gave him as her sap-stained knife made neat rows of cuts in the seed pods.

Elrond had meant to walk towards the woman for a friendly word to counter his earlier curtness with her, when he felt a stir in his constant ring-enhanced awareness of the boundaries of Imladris. The Fords of the Bruinen were being crossed by a company of Elves riding at speed, doubtlessly messengers. He turned so fast the swishing hem of his robe caught on the woody stalks of the bed of thyme behind him. Suppressing a curse he bent down to untangle the precious summer silk, then strode towards the main house with as much dignity as could be recovered. With a pang he realised the look that followed him was one of deep compassion.

It was all the Lord of Imladris could do not to make a fool of himself by standing around on the greensward in front of the house when the messengers arrived. He lingered in the entrance hall instead, its shadowed interior hiding him from eyes on the sunlit lawn outside, and let Erestor perform his usual duties. As soon as the riders came into view Elrond’s heart leapt. They were undoubtedly Círdan’s folk, of slender dark-haired Falathrim stock wearing the grey and pale blue livery of the Lord of the Havens.

A cluster of house-staff and grooms stood ready to receive horses and riders, and Erestor moved through the throng towards its head with his usual efficient grace. The visitors were dismounting as he stepped forward to greet them. Erestor gave their leader, a tall woman whose sinewy arms betrayed her as a sailor, a small but courteous bow, greeting her in Sindarin with a perfect Falathrim accent.

Erestor was the most venerable survivor of the Lambengolmor in Middle-earth, and he made the effort of welcoming every Elvish delegation visiting Imladris in their native dialect, no matter how ancient or obscure. Judging by her startled look and wavering voice, Cirdan’s messenger was rather intimidated by the formidable Noldorin loremaster.

She seemed unused to being received in this manner. As was customary Erestor was about to lead her inside, and one of the grooms stood ready to take charge of her horse. The woman was visibly nervous and clung to her chestnut mare’s mane for support, oblivious that she was keeping both men waiting. Erestor was far too polite a host to point it out, and their uneasy introductions dragged on for some time. The hapless messenger’s name turned out to be Nengeleth, and she indeed bore a message from Círdan, to be delivered to none other than Elrond and Celebrían personally.

Not only did Erestor manage to camouflage his agitation, he also refrained from asking any further questions as he guided her directly to Elrond’s study. This testament to his ancient councillor’s ingrained discretion and self-restraint impressed Elrond even now.

Inside Celebrían was already waiting. Her silk dress, blue as a robin’s egg, rustled as she rose from her usual seat beside Elrond’s to speak gracious words of welcome. Erestor took his place behind Elrond’s chair, a comforting presence at his lord’s back. There was a strong rap on the door and Glorfindel entered, quick and silent as a flash of golden sunlight.

Nengeleth made a hesitant curtsey. When she spoke it was haltingly. She clearly was no trained message-bearer.

“My Lord and Lady, I apologise for not greeting you properly. My name is Nengeleth. I am a sailor, more suited to sea and harbour than the council-room, but Lord Círdan bade me to ride to you with these tidings nonetheless.”

Elrond knew his cue in this well-rehearsed play Erestor, Celebrian and he had been performing together for many years. The lord of the House should now stand up to graciously welcome the distraught visitor to his home so she might tell her news in reasonable comfort. He found himself incapable of any word or deed that might delay the telling of Negeleth’s tale for even an instant. He kept his inhospitable silence, hanging on her every word in a less than polite way.

Nengeleth’s rope-calloused fingers were in constant motion as she nervously fiddled with her wedding ring, voice hoarse with nerves.

“In the last days of Ethuil my companions and I were in Pelargir, as it is such a beautiful season on the southern seas. We had met your captain Glorfindel earlier ...”

She paused to look at Glorfindel, who nodded encouragingly.

“And he asked us to look out for a man from Harad with the look of your son Elladan. I am here to tell you that I saw such a person on the docks of the harbour.”

Elrond clasped Celebrían’s hand, unable to utter words for the avalanche of emotion. The only sound in the room was the absurd clicking of Doronion’s shears as the gardener clipped the lawn outside.

Erestor was the first to find his bearings.

“And…?” he encouraged Nengeleth, failing to keep impatience from his voice.

Nengeleth, seeming unsure whether she was about to be scolded or praised, bravely soldiered on.

“Our encounter was very brief, if it was an encounter at all. He ran from us as if we were Wraiths, and we could not find him again. But we were in luck. Our friend the dockmaster knew of him. He had come from Harad and wanted to travel North, crewing on a Mortal merchant’s ship, the Beinalph. It sailed the very night we saw him. Our Lady Uinen forced the winds in our favour to bring you these tidings, and She keeps the Mortal’s ship in Her good graces. It is a crude vessel, unsuited to the open sea, so her going along the coast is slow. I believe they will not make it to Tharbad before summer’s end.“

Hope flooded Elrond like the sweetest of tides. Before surrendering to it he needed to be sure.

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear lady. Will you share the memory, so we may be sure before we allow ourselves this joy?”

Glorfindel was already beside her. Nengeleth’s memory was no more than a glimpse of Elrohir’s startled face across a crowded street, but it was enough. Glorfindel nodded, his absolute certainty clear to see.

Elrond rose, and managed a single step towards Nengeleth before an avalanche of emotion swept him away. As he fought to even out his breathing he could not think, could not speak or even conceive of something remotely appropriate to say to the bewildered Falathrim woman. It was all he could do to remain standing, struck silent in the middle of his own study as the gathering degenerated into confusion around him.

Elrond knew he had never managed to shed the strict Noldorin formality his foster fathers had instilled in him. In later years, Gil-galad had been no supporter of the Fëanorian ways, but the high king of Noldor and Sindar was a hard-headed statesman. He possessed the very same straight-backed, imperturbable courtesy that must once have reigned the fallen court of Tirion. A true ruler kept their head up, shoulders straight and face and mind both arranged into an impassive mask, whether faced with ruin, glory or the Dark Lord himself.

Celebrían had no such compunctions. Elrond stood marvelling at the grace with which his beloved wife displayed her emotions as the Lady of Imladris rose from her chair to embrace Nengeleth, tears of joy running down her face.

The following days were a blur of frenzied activity. Elrond, Celebrían and Elladan wished for nothing more than to depart for Tharbad at once. None of them could bear to contemplate Elrohir arriving there without anyone waiting for him, and potentially vanishing again.

Both Erestor and Glorfindel protested vehemently. An armed escort large enough to safeguard them in the Orc-infested wilds of Eregion could not be mustered in a few days’ time. It would do Elrohir a poor service, Erestor pleaded, if his entire family should get themselves killed or worse by their haste to retrieve him. Elrond’s own reply was admittedly less than gracious, and by the time Erestor bade his lord to remember the disaster of the Gladden Fields they were almost shouting at each other. To their great credit Elrond’s councillors managed to restore their lord to his rational senses.

Glorfindel and a gwéth of his warriors rode at once to Tharbad with great haste. After that company left, Erstor’s preparations intensified. His call upon all who were skilled at arms gathered plenty of volunteers from the mingled folk of Imladris. Noldor, Sindar and Silvan Elves alike left their peacetime occupations and took up the arms and armour they laid down after the Siege of Mordor to gather under Elrond’s banner once more, this time for a far happier cause. In mere days, Elrond, Celebrían and Elladan could depart with enough of an escort that Erestor, who would rule Imladris in Elrond’s absence, had at least a reasonable hope of seeing his lord and lady and their heir return in one piece.

Chapter End Notes

Hearing back from readers makes me a very happy Scribe!

Even in the golden sunlight of a radiant autumn day, the city of Tharbad and its great bridge straddling the river Gwàthlo looked like a grey steel collar trammelling some wild creature.

Glorfindel went straight to the riverside docks. Tharbad’s river port was vital to the flow of trade between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms of the Dùnedain and Aration, the city’s lord, was an important man. Erestor’s diplomatic skills had ensured that Glorfindel was received most warmly when he presented himself at the lord’s impressive dockside residence.

The stained glass panes of Aration’s study speckled its walls of white marble with a rather busy pattern of bright red, green and blue. Even Glorfindel -- who had never been known for his subdued taste in decorations -- felt it was a bit much. The best that could be said about the ostentatious windows was that they presented a fine view of the Gwàthlo.

Glorfindel rose from his chair to look outside, leaving the silver cup of excellent wine and the sugared almond biscuits Aration’s visibly nervous servant had brought to sweeten his wait for the master of the house. None of the ships lying at anchor outside appeared to match the Falathrim sailor’s description of the Beinalph. Either Glorfindel had arrived well in advance or Elrohir was long gone, and where to was anyone’s guess.

“Elen sila lùmenn’ omentielvo, my lord. I am greatly honoured to welcome Lord Elrond’s noble representative to Tharbad. What may I do to assist you?”

Aration’s bow as he entered his own study was deep and formal. His greeting was in a passable -- if somewhat accented -- Quenya. That he spoke the language at all betrayed a fine education, as might be expected from a man close enough to King Valandil to be trusted with control of Arnor’s southern trade routes. Aration had clearly made an effort for his unexpected Elvish guest. His rotund cheeks were still shiny from the razor, and he had donned a tunic of imported Gondorian silk as colourful as his windows. The overall effect was rather dazzling.

“My Lord Aration. A very fair welcome indeed! My lord has sent me to wait for a merchant’s ship, the Beinalph. Have you any news of it?”

Aration seemed taken aback, but he quickly pulled himself together.

“Captain Berengil is expected any day now, my lord. I expect he had good sailing. No word has reached us of of ill weather at sea, and our navy has cured the wild men of Enedwaith of their piracy.”

Glorfindel managed to keep a straight face while he inwardly sagged with relief. Aration shot him a shrewd look as he handed Glorfindel his abandoned wine cup and poured one for himself.

“If I may impose, my lord, the Beinalph tends to carry wares of a quality that … differs from what Lord Elrond is accustomed to. Whatever your lord may have asked you to purchase from Berengil, perhaps something more suitable might be found in the city’s storehouses? The wine you were served is from Tarnost, in Dor-en-Ernil. We received a shipment only a fortnight ago...”

As much as Glorfindel wanted to appease Aration and direct his attention away from Elrond’s interest in the Beinalph, he could hardly burden himself with a ship’s worth of Gondorian wine, even such a fine one as this.

“I must thank you for your assistance, but my business is with one of the Beinalph’s passengers rather than its cargo. Lord Elrond has tasked me with escorting this person to Rivendell.”

Aration could not have been more astonished if Glorfindel had turned himself into a hawk to fly around the study.

“The Beinalph is no passenger ship. She has seen better days. If I may be frank, I cannot imagine one of the Fair Folk choosing to travel like that.”

Glorfindel kept his face impassive.

“My errand calls for the greatest possible discretion. We would very much appreciate it if the city guards would make themselves scarce when the Beinalph pulls into the dock. Lord Elrond will be most grateful, and he will be sure to remember your name upon his next meeting with the king.”

Aration was an intelligent man, and for an instant Glorfindel feared he would put two and two together and realize the fabled lost Prince of the Elves was about to arrive in his city. It would be hard to dissuade him from staging an official reception for the son of Elrond of Rivendell, and even harder to control Elrohir’s unpredictable behaviour. Glorfindel was almost relieved when it turned out Aration’s mind was running along more mundane tracks.

“With all due respect, I must remind you that only the king’s representative has the authority to make arrests in Tharbad. What crimes has this man committed?”

Glorfindel drew himself up to his full Noldorin height. Aration was of Nùmenòrean blood, but the Elf-Lord still overtopped him by nearly a handbreadth. Aration’s grey eyes briefly darted to the sword at Glorfindel’s hip.

“He is no Man, but one of our own folk, and as far as I know he has broken none of the king’s laws. Our business with him is of no concern to anyone in Arnor. The matter is of vital importance to Lord Elrond, enough so to spark an unprecedented diplomatic incident if you should cross him in this.”

The threat proved unnecessary. Aration had breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing Glorfindel’s quarry was an Elf, and therefore out of his jurisdiction. He was keen enough to let this supposed Elvish criminal be apprehended by Elrond’s warriors instead of risking his own men.

“I have no desire to meddle in the private affairs of the Elves. We will make sure to clear the quays on the ship’s arrival.”

Glorfindel shook his head. Elrohir should not be alerted to their presence until he was within physical reach, lest he do something foolish and desperate.

“I assure you that there is no need to alarm the populace. Let the Beinalph’s arrival proceed as usual. My people will take care of everything.”

----------

Glorfindel had his gwéth discreetly set up camp in a copse of willow trees not far from the city gates. He far preferred the splendour of autumn among the colouring trees to the cramped uncleanliness of Mortal guesthouses. They kept a keen eye on the comings and goings of boats on the Gwàthlo, mostly Arnorian navy ships, flat-bottomed river-boats and the occasional trading caravel. Their wait was a short one. In the afternoon of the third day their lookout by the river returned to camp announcing that the Beinalph was being rowed into the harbour.

Glorfindel made his way to the docks to join a crowd of excited sailors’ families and well-wishers waiting for ship and crew. He strategically positioned his warriors throughout the city and at the gates. If Elrohir should attempt another disappearance he would find hidden sentries waiting.

At the sight of the Beinalph Aration’s disbelief at the very idea of an Elf among the passengers became understandable. The people of Tharbad honoured their Nùmenorèan heritage in their fine mastery of shipbuilding, and their seafaring vessels looked sleek and shiny, sculpted with the same fluid elegance as the seagulls wheeling overhead. Next to them the Beinalph had a battered air, like a bird flapping away from a dog’s jaws, mudstained and feathers sticking out at odd angles. Glorfindel gave yet another silent prayer of thanks to the Lady Uinen for sparing the battered ship from summer storms.

As the ship drew level with the quay, mooring lines were thrown and the crowd cheered as the gangplank was laid down. Those gathered were mostly simple folk, women and children in homespun and wooden shoes trying to catch a first glimpse of their returning husbands. Glorfindel hid his face in the hood of his grey cloak. He did not want to alert Elrohir by causing a stir.

With a flood of relief Glorfindel noticed Elrohir’s face, a point of stillness among the row of waving and whooping sailors hanging over the railing. He looked little better than when Glorfindel last saw him, months ago in Far Harad. His fey, almost translucent appearance, eyes seemingly focused beyond the waking world, struck fear into Glorfindel’s heart. He had seen that look of pervasive sorrow before, in other Elves after other wars, and for many among them there had been no cure but Mandos’ halls.

At least Elrohir’s war wounds seemed fully healed. His face was tanned from a summer at sea. He had had the good sense to grow out his hair. It now hid his unusual ears in the unwashed tangles Mortals seemed to favour. The Beinalph’s captain had been too miserly to properly feed his crew: Elrohir looked as gaunt as he had in the desert. He wore plain sailor’s garb from Gondor, linen and felted wool, the very same saddlebag from Harad slung over his shoulder.

With a pang of sadness at having to stalk Elrond’s son like he was game to be hunted Glorfindel let him disembark. When he reached the middle of the quay, too far from both ship and city to rapidly duck into either, Glorfindel stepped from the throng of city folk into his path.

---

Elrohir’s mind had been fully occupied with the practicalities of finding a bed for the night. His heart nearly stopped when a cloaked shape seemed to spring from the quay’s mud-covered cobbles in front of him. He knew who it was even before Glorfindel had lowered his hood.

To his own surprise what he felt was not fear at all. There was nothing but bone-deep relief that the uncertainty of his lonely journey was finally over. Whatever fate would befall him at the hands of the Elves, it was a relief to be done waiting for it.

At first Glorfindel only looked at him, his unusual blue eyes intently searching Elrohir’s face as he touched his mind. The sensation remained familiar even after months apart. Elrohir found he did not mind the Elvish thought-opening, glad as he was not to be alone anymore. He fully expected Glorfindel to be furious with him, bracing for an onslaught that never came. Instead he was swept up in a rib-cracking embrace.

“Well met, Elrohir. A long journey you made, and a hard one, by the state of you.”

The Elf spoke Haradi in an attempt to put him at ease, Elrohir realised. He had believed himself above such emotional tricks, but it was impossible to deny the simple joy he felt at hearing words in a language other than Númenórean with a thick, ugly Northern accent.

“I am well, Glorfindel. Are you?”

Elrohir did not know what else to say to this golden, ageless creature with light-filled eyes. From what brief glimpses he had seen he knew that this, rather than the veiled reflection he had worn in Harad, was Glorfindel’s true nature. The knowledge did not make the sight of it any less intimidating. The many different apologies he had mentally rehearsed over the past months seemed to fall flat before leaving his mouth. He soldiered on regardless.

“Glorfindel ... for what it's worth, and I am aware that is probably precious little, I apologise for leaving you behind. I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble for returning without me.”

Glorfindel laughed, and Elrohir recognised that merry, musical sound at once.

“No more trouble than I could handle. Although I do expect my second homecoming will be the merrier one!”

The Elf pulled back from their embrace and his eyes came to rest on Elrohir’s, their open gaze full of joy.

“You kept your promise to come north. Most importantly you are safe, which is all that matters. The long way home is almost at an end.”

With that he led Elrohir through the bustling streets towards the city’s north gate.

“Did you come to Tharbad all by yourself?”

Elrohir knew his question had failed to sound casual the moment it left his mouth. Glorfindel knew well enough that he was calculating the odds of another escape. Still the Elf’s face and mind remained gentle, and Elrohir did not doubt for an instant that his answer was the truth.

“I rode here with a gwèth of your father’s warriors, both for protection on the road and to ensure you would not run from me again. We are being watched. Please, Elrohir, do not make me chase you down the street like a fleeing cutpurse. We only mean to keep you from harm. The North is perilous to lonely travellers.”

Elrohir froze in terror at the thought of an entire company of armed Elves lying in wait for him, the horrors in Abrazîr’s tales fresh in his mind. His heart thundered in his chest like a battle drum, and for an instant it seemed his body would attempt a mad dash for freedom of its own accord. Glorfindel must have perceived it, because he laid a comforting hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. His palm felt surprisingly warm and solid through Elrohir’s linen shirt, and a curious sense of calm flowed from the touch.

“Elladan sends you his love. He has missed you very much. Will you not come with me and meet him?”

As distractions went this was less than subtle, but an effective one. A visceral stab of longing tore through Elrohir’s body at the very mention of his twin.

“Is Elladan here?”

Glorfindel began walking again, gently leading Elrohir along. He shook his head.

“Not yet. My gwéth and I rode hard to assure we would not miss your ship. From Imladris to Tharbad is ten days in the saddle at the least, more if you want to do it in reasonable comfort. Your parents and Elladan followed as soon as could be arranged. They are probably only a day or so behind now.”

Elrohir made another brusque stop.

“Where are we going?”

He had expected Glorfindel to turn towards an inn or a livery-stable. Instead they made for the city gates.

“Our camp. Elves do not like to stay in Mortal dwellings.”

In that moment Elrohir felt as wary as the day he first rode into the desert with Glorfindel. He stood still and looked about himself, at the world he knew. They were standing in an an ordinary street with thatched houses of grey stone, weeds springing up between the cobblestones and its folk going about their daily business. Washerwomen returned from the river with heavy baskets, chattering like a flock of geese. Three laughing men sat outside an alehouse. A barefoot farmer slowly drove an ox-cart piled high with hay into the city. Their lined faces held a flowing, ever-changing life that was utterly lacking in the perfection of Glorfindel’s ageless features.

Elrohir understood with alarming clarity that he was being led to some strange fate, and that his next step, the one that would take him out of the city, would bring some grave and wholly irreversible change. Glorfindel clearly read his trepidation. The Elf calmly stood aside on the muddy cobbles beneath the city gate, and raised his hand in a beckoning gesture.

“Not all that is strange, is evil. You are unlike these people in ways you cannot begin to understand. Do not share their fate without knowing what you truly are.”

With nothing but empty miles behind him he was left with no other choice, Elrohir realised as he followed Glorfindel out of the gates, leaving the world of Men behind.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far. All of your thoughts, ideas and concrit are very much appreciated.

Of course this is not the end of Elrohir's long way to Rivendell, and when he gets there his troubles are far from over ...

See you soon!

Idrils Scribe